Dance with Death (38 page)

‘Tell me, Hanım,’ İkmen said, ‘does Dolores Lavell know?’

‘No! No!’

‘I ask because I know that she is alone in the world and maybe if she knew that she had a brother . . .’

‘Kemalettin?’ She shook her head. ‘Who would want him? My son is mad, Inspector, and he can only now get madder.’

‘I do think that Miss Lavell should be given that choice,’ İkmen said.

‘But if you told the American you would have to tell Kemalettin too. No, no. No, he is never to know.’ She fixed İkmen with a harsh stare. ‘He loved his father Tatar. He loved me and his brother. Don’t take us away from him, for his sake.’

She leaned forward in a pleading motion and İkmen shook his head sadly. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’

‘You are not to tell anyone about this,’ Nalan Senar continued. ‘Look, if it’s money you want, to buy your silence, I still have . . .’

‘I don’t want your money!’ İkmen instinctively cringed away from her.

‘Then . . .’

Quickly and suddenly, İkmen stood up. ‘I need to get out of here,’ he said. ‘I need to leave this place and get back to my reality.’

‘Yes, but you mustn’t . . .’

‘You,’ he pointed rudely into her face, ‘will not know whether I have told anyone or not about your secret for some little time. That,’ he said spitefully, ‘is my personal punishment to you.’

‘For what?’

‘For trying to kill me,’ İkmen said as he banged his fist on the door to attract one of the jandarma in the office. ‘But mainly for making my wife and my children so worried. My son-in-law had just been injured in an incident in İstanbul, they had enough to worry about. How dare you.’

‘I was simply trying to retain my family honour . . .’

‘And keep the Senar money.’ The door opened and İkmen went through it. Just before it shut behind him again, he looked at the woman, so small and old sitting on her bedroll, and said, ‘By the way, I have a secret too. I’ll tell anyone. Even you.’

‘What is it?’

‘I didn’t know who killed Aysu Alkaya when I stunned you all with my “genius” yesterday. I just hoped that someone would either reveal themselves to me or simply give themselves up. Hang themselves, as it were.’

The jandarma pushed the door shut and locked it up again.

‘Jak!’

Mehmet Süleyman took hold of the small, dark man in front of him in a firm and almost grateful embrace. Although a lot cleaner and much more mobile, Jak Cohen looked remarkably like his brother Balthazar.

‘Mehmet,’ Jak said in his rather strange English-tinged Turkish. ‘Good to see you again, if in such sad circumstances.’

‘Jak, I . . .’

‘Oh, Jak, thank God!’ Estelle, who had been beside Mehmet and Zelfa Süleyman at the arrivals barrier, threw herself into her brother-in-law’s arms and began to weep hysterically.

‘It was very good of Leon to let Estelle and Balthazar stay in his flat,’ Mehmet began. ‘But Jak, you know Leon . . .’

‘I understand,’ Jak said as he gently stroked Estelle’s hair with his one free hand. ‘Don’t worry, Mehmet, I’ll sort it out.’

Mehmet smiled and then, taking one of his wife’s hands in his, he said, ‘I’ve got my car. Shall we?’

‘Yes.’

The Süleymans led the way. Behind them, Jak and Estelle talked in a language Mehmet recognised as Ladino, the ancient speech of the Sephardic Jews of İstanbul. It made him smile. People almost without thinking always did tend to revert to the language of their youth when in pain or in trouble. Even passion could bring it back. Whatever she might say when they were making love, Zelfa always said it in English. The memory of the last time she had done this, just the night before, caused him to squeeze her hand affectionately.

‘What is it?’ she said as she looked into his eyes with a frown on her face.

He smiled. ‘Oh, just happy, that’s all. Glad you and I are, well, what would you call it, together . . .’

‘Married,’ she said. ‘I’d say we’re married, wouldn’t you?’

‘Well, I hope . . .’

‘Well, let’s go and sort the Cohens out and then go home and have an early night.’ She smiled. ‘Dad’s playing bridge at his club and your brother has Yusuf for the evening . . .’

Mehmet slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her in close to his body. The airport doors swished open to allow their departure and the couple just paused a moment to make sure that Jak and Estelle were still behind them before moving on towards the airport car park. It was dark outside, and confusing for an expatriate like Jak and a confused, ageing lady like Estelle. The Süleymans waited for their guests to catch them up.

‘Çetin and Dr Sarkissian will be home tomorrow,’ Mehmet said as they waited for the others. ‘They’re leaving Muratpaşa in the morning.’

‘You’ll be glad when they’re back.’

He kissed her lightly on the mouth. ‘I’ve missed them.’

Zelfa smiled. As ever it had been a mixed blessing having Mehmet back in her life once again. She didn’t always know where he was, even less what he was thinking. But he was, she knew, at least trying to be more thoughtful. And he was, she recognised, suffering from a lot of self-doubt with regard to this latest, still unsolved, investigation. He was also still having problems with what he had seen and done at the Neve Şalom Synagogue explosion. She knew both professionally and just as a human being that that would not go away for a long time. Berekiah had been badly hurt, the Cohens traumatised, innocent people had died. Mehmet was going to be angry and would suffer from nightmares for a long time to come.

But at least İkmen was soon to be home from his rather mysterious Cappadocian travels. Mehmet had spoken to him at length on the phone and in very excited terms, but Zelfa knew very little about it. She was just glad that her husband’s friend was returning and that soon he would feel a little bit more secure once again. Mehmet relied upon İkmen in ways the older man would probably never have recognised. His sense of self worth was very tied in with İkmen’s opinions. She looked at him again and thought how good it was for Yusuf to have his father back in his life. The child was even sleeping more easily now. For herself, she knew that she loved her husband, in spite of herself, and whatever he did. She might hate him, too. When he had gone off with another woman she loathed him. But she loved him – loved his smile, his intensity, his unfailing generosity. He was also, she thought as she almost laughed out loud, a very good fuck.

As the Cohens caught up with them, Mehmet put his free arm round Estelle’s shoulders and led Jak and ‘his’ women out towards his car.

A lot of people turned out to see the policeman from İstanbul and the two Armenians prepare to leave the village. Altay Salman was particularly sorry to see friends from ‘civilisation’ leave, as was Rachelle Jones who even shed a few tears on İkmen’s behalf.

‘It’s going to be quiet around here without you guys,’ she said as she took one of İkmen’s hands warmly in her own.

İkmen smiled. She was probably right – at least for a little while longer. When the Senar case came to court it would probably bring a fair few media people into the area who would wish to sensationalise what had happened for a while.

‘I’ve put some börek for you in a plastic tub with some pide,’ Menşure said as she thrust an enormous blue bag into İkmen’s hands. ‘I imagine you’ll stop off at different restaurants on the way but at least you won’t have to eat any of their ghastly and unhygienic food.’

‘No, Menşure.’

He moved forward as if to kiss her, but she just stepped back and, looking at her feet, said, ‘Well, say goodbye to Kismet.’

Both İkmen and Arto Sarkissian looked downwards.

‘Goodbye,’ the policeman said to the cat. The doctor waved, a frozen expression of horror on his lips. Kismet sneered back expansively.

‘Well, Inspector, this is it,’ a cheery English voice interjected.

‘Tom!’ He felt his heart literally sink in his chest as he contemplated this particular parting. Tom Chambers had become special in so many ways. He was, after all, a tangible part of Alison, a part that was still very much alive. İkmen threw his arms round the young man and then softly patted his back. ‘Tom, what will you . . .’

Tom Chambers pulled himself gently away from İkmen and pointed towards the two women at his side. ‘Em, Dolores and I are going to stay on a bit longer and then we’re all going to go off down south.’

‘Catch a few rays before the winter comes right in,’ Emily Bronstein said as she shook first İkmen and then the two Armenians by their hands. ‘Pity you can’t come, Inspector.’

‘I agree.’ He smiled and turned to the other woman. ‘And you, Miss Lavell, are you looking forward to catching some “rays”?’

‘Yes.’ She took one of his hands in hers. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

‘Dolores is coming back afterwards, aren’t you?’ Tom said.

‘Yes.’

‘She’s going to see what she can do for that poor Kemalettin,’ Tom continued. ‘Seems he has the same thing your dad suffered from, doesn’t he, Dolores?’

‘Yes,’ she said, looking very deeply into İkmen’s eyes.

‘Coincidences! My God!’ Tom said.

But Dolores Lavell and Çetin İkmen knew that this, unlike Tom’s meeting with the policeman, was not a coincidence. İkmen had told the American about Kemalettin and his relationship to her. She, though initially shocked by this revelation, was hardly surprised. Her father had been quite the ladies’ man in his time.

‘I’ll do what I can for Kemalettin. I may even take him to the States. Who knows what can be done for people like him now?’ she said as she leaned forward in order to kiss İkmen on the cheek. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll never know who I am,’ she whispered gently in his ear.

İkmen, for many different reasons, but mainly for Kemalettin’s sake, had decided not to let Nalan Senar’s shame spread any further than Dolores Lavell’s ears. Against all expectations Nazlı Kahraman had taken her father’s old love rival into her home and he, simple soul, seemed to be enjoying the company of the old woman and her slow young husband. He would never be well and eventually his condition would kill him, but at least Kemalettin had people to be with as well as, possibly, the best care Dolores Lavell was able to arrange. She had promised İkmen and Kemalettin himself that much.

‘Come on, Çetin,’ Arto said as he slid into the driving seat of his black Mercedes. ‘Atom!’

The younger Armenian, who was across the road from the pansiyon speaking German with Ferdinand Mueller, indicated that he was almost ready.

‘Oh well . . .’ İkmen shrugged as he surveyed the now-familiar faces around him.

‘Thank you.’

The voice was old and cracked and it was one that İkmen had not heard anything from since the whole village had gathered to hear the İstanbul man’s investigative wisdom. He turned. ‘Haldun Bey!’

‘Thank you for finding out who killed my daughter, Çetin Bey,’ Haldun Alkaya said.

‘I’m just so sorry you cannot bury her yet, Haldun Bey,’ İkmen said. ‘But I promise you that as soon as the forensic people have done what they have to I will get them to return her to you.’

Although originally Aysu Alkaya’s remains were to be driven back to İstanbul by Arto Sarkissian, their fragile state now made that impossible and so her corpse was to be flown out from Kayseri to İstanbul the following day.

‘I knew that you and the DNA would find my daughter’s killer,’ Haldun Alkaya continued. ‘It was indeed written, Çetin Bey.’

İkmen took one of the old man’s hands in his and lifted it first to his lips and then to his forehead in a gesture of respect. ‘Haldun Bey, it has been an honour.’

And so İkmen said his goodbyes and was waiting for Atom to finish his when he suddenly thought of something and went back over to Tom Chambers once again.

‘Tom,’ he said, a little nervously, the Englishman felt.

‘Yes?’

‘Tom, please, would you do something for me when you get back to England?’

‘Name it,’ the young man said. ‘I mean, if you ever want to come over we’ve got each other’s addresses now.’

‘No, well, that would be very nice, but . . .’ İkmen swallowed hard as he watched Atom Boghosian get into Arto’s car. ‘Would you go to Guildford in Surrey and put some flowers on to Alison’s grave for me? I would do it myself, but . . .’

‘Of course.’ Tom put his arms around İkmen one last time and hugged him tightly. ‘She loved flowers, she loved you.’

As quickly as he could, İkmen jumped into the back of the doctor’s car and then wiped his ‘leaking’ eyes with the back of his jacket sleeve. Although most of the snow had now melted there was still a lot of slush on the roads as they sloshed their way out of the tiny troglodyte village of Muratpaşa. İkmen looked at the strange phallic shapes and biblically dressed people that characterised the village as they passed. Old slights to honour, imagined or real hurts, assumed enormous proportions in places like this. İkmen leaned back in his very comfortable rear seat and wondered whatever would happen to that wonderful fresco he and Tom had seen in the cave with the mummy. Without Erten’s involvement, would the expert still come down from Ankara to preserve it? He hoped so. After all, whatever horrors had happened in that cave they had nothing to do with the fresco. That deserved to be seen by all, whatever the subject of the picture turned out to be.

As the car pulled up the hill and out of the village, Arto Sarkissian suddenly pointed out into the strange landscape to his left and said, ‘Good God! What the . . .’

İkmen looked to where he was pointing, into the rising sun, to the lone figure of a woman dressed in a huge rainbow-coloured cloak bowing and stretching towards it.

‘Oh, that’s the Peruvian woman,’ he said casually. ‘She’s praying to the sun god.’

‘You know her?’

‘Not exactly,’ İkmen said. ‘But I’ve heard some stories.’ And then he took a cigarette out of his pocket, lit up and said, ‘The country. Eccentric, gorgeously wild and potentially lethal. You can keep it. Come on, Arto, put your foot down!’